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PARADISE NEARLY LOST
Not every trip—even to French Polynesia—can be a perfect getaway.
By Anthony Head

Here's the whole story.

There are two types of people in the world: those who feel guilty for being upgraded to business class from coach, and those who feel naturally deserving of such treatment. I was, admittedly, the latter type when encountered with this situation last March. It seemed pretty self-evident after all, since I'm six foot two and the typical coach class seat is meant for a man of half my size. Plus, the person I bumped out was the trip's public relations escort, who had traveled on this very flight several times already, and who couldn't be taller than five-five, five-six at the most. And finally, the other writers had already been upgraded when news came that only three such privileges were available, and there were important inner-media conversations—such as comparing sunscreen strengths—that couldn't wait until we landed.

So, just before take-off from LAX to the storied archipelago of South Pacific islands known as French Polynesia, I felt justified, relieved, and honestly grateful when the lovely and exotic Air Tahiti flight attendant led me through the curtain into business class just as another equally fetching attendant was scooting Mr. PR back into coach. Maybe that was my mistake.

Maybe Lady Fortune or Karma or whatever it is you want to call it—Fate perhaps—frowned upon me for feeling so deserving of that resplendent Air Tahiti business class treatment. I'm fairly certain I caught a lousy bug while reclining in comfort. In fact, a fellow writer admitted to me to be finishing up one doozey of a flu, but didn't want to miss such a trip. (I won't be disclosing the name.) Had I stayed in coach, maybe the rest of my story would be quite different from what it turned out to be.

After several flutes of champagne in Mr. PR's honor, I slept like a baby throughout the flight until being awakened to the landing instructions spoken in English then French and finally a language I assumed was Tahitian. It was dark when we touched down at Tahiti Faa'a International Airport on the island's west side. The aromas of fresh-cut flowers filled the tropical night air outside the terminal building. As I walked to the hotel shuttle, every ten or so paces another beautiful woman in a flower-print dress draped another colorful lei over my shoulders.

By the time our group arrived at Manava Suite Resort (in the nearby district of Punaauia) the van smelled like a florist's shop, but our short trip had revealed no indication of the island's true character. It was well past midnight, and around us Tahiti appeared to be asleep, so I decided to follow suit. I still had six days left in paradise.

Tahiti's morning skyline.

The next morning, from my window I could see an emerald-blue ocean racing coral-pink streaks of sunlight to the far end of the horizon. This was the first real look of my surroundings and it did not disappoint. The bed was very comfortable and I felt refreshed, although I noticed a tickle in the back of my throat, which isn't uncommon after long international flights. It's one of those minor irritations we travel writers endure in order to be flown to exotic places (in business class), so I really wasn't alarmed.

Before breakfast, under promising, sunshine-filled skies, I strolled beside the resort's lagoon, where small fish floated in the clear water like tiger-striped and neon blue snowflakes, seemingly as curious of the world above the surface as I was of the one below. (FYI: My reading choice for the trip was My Father, The Captain: My Life with Jacques Cousteau by Jean-Michel Cousteau, president of Santa Barbara's Ocean Futures Society; oceanfutures.org.) In the distance, waves broke over a hidden reef and the sound filled me with the sense of anticipation. I actually felt goose bumps rise on my skin.

In good company with my fellow writers, I toured the island—or rather, islands. Our van driver, an upbeat, young man named Cookie (who seemed to know everyone on the west side of Tahiti by name), explained that Tahiti is comprised of Tahiti Nui (the big island) and Tahiti Iti (the small island). He also filled us with stories and local legends of Captain James Cook (many people think Cook discovered these and other South Pacific islands, but by the time he came along in April 1769 other Europeans had already been there. Plus, Polynesians had called this island paradise "home" since about 1300 BCE.); Captain William Bligh (erroneously depicted as a villainous commander in books and movies about the infamous "mutiny" that took place aboard the Bounty after departing Tahiti, Bligh survived the ordeal and eventually was awarded the rank of Vice Admiral in England's Royal Navy); French artist Paul Gauguin, who lived for 12 years in Tahiti and nearby islands before dying in paradise (Cookie does a great Gauguin impression, by the way); and the cast of the 2009 comedy Couples Retreat, which was filmed in nearby Bora Bora (and which, Cookie and I agree, the critics may have been a bit harsh with).

Cookie telling stories.

Cookie spoke affectionately of his native islands, but explained that paradise comes with challenges. The high cost of living is a burden to many here; and the political situation sounds as bad as ours, if not worse. Since 2004, the office of President of French Polynesia has turned over eleven times, with the same three men apparently taking shifts.

We toured Le Jardin D'Eau ("Spring Garden") of Vaipahi and stood amid towering avocado trees, bright blooming hibiscus, ginger, and other flowering plants, and hidden freshwater springs. Cookie pointed out noni, a Tahitian fruit that purportedly contains anti-cancer properties; and breadfruit trees (the fruit of which, he said, tasted like sweet potato). We then drove to and strolled along a black sand beach, a popular launching spot for canoes. Exotic and edible (yet still immature) "sea grapes" were growing on nearby trees.

Tahiti's black sand beach.

Back in the van, Tahiti's narrow, winding roadways reminded me of Hawaii. There were lots of roadside fruit stands, Hinano beer signs hung off every other market roof, and the coast was never far from sight. The nearby mountains were soft-carpeted with coconut- and palm-tree groves and myriad species of tropical flora. And what I had thought were occasional wisps of low morning fog turned out to be smoke from numerous small fires burning in the neighborhoods. Cookie said fire is used to keep gardens clean and keep the mosquitoes at bay.

After parting ways with Cookie in Papeete, French Polynesia's capital city of about 26,000, our group explored downtown. There wasn't an overwhelming amount of traffic, but the streets are narrow and cars squeezed slowly and continuously through them.

A typical street in Papeete.

Scooters appeared to be the smart choice for getting around quickly, especially when new waves of tourists arrived, as Papeete is also a bustling port of call for the cruise industry.

For jewelry enthusiasts, Papeete is a hub for the pearl trade. You wouldn't guess it by reading this scientific description I found somewhere ("Tahitian pearls are bead-nucleated and grown in the gonad of the Pinctada margaritifera mollusk") but the pearls are indeed quite striking. They come in varying colors, including shimmering blue and green, but the most popular are metallic silver, steel gray, and black. Pearls are sold all over the islands, but Papeete displays a dizzying concentration of them. Most of the storefronts along popular Boulevard Pomaré prominently showcase them in their windows. There's even a museum dedicated to these bewitching orbs.

A block north of Boulevard Pomaré sits the large Public Market (Le Marché), which draws locals for their groceries. Its 7,000 square feet of space also houses fresh flowers, island knickknacks, ukuleles, sundries, beach clothing—and an abundance of just-caught seafood with accompanying aromas.

Tahitians enjoy fresh fish, often marinating it in coconut milk and limejuice as the basis to begin their endless creation of new recipes. I attempted lunch with the others at Les 3 Brasseurs (3brasseurs-pacific.com) café and microbrewery, but my appetite was nowhere near as large as my fatigue. I know I should have continued scouting the city for hidden treasures (like my comrades probably did for their readers); instead I sat against a palm tree and read a few pages—then actually dozed off for a bit until it was time for the ferry to take us to Moorea.

This place looked different. It felt even more exotic and remote than Tahiti—a white-sand place that was the stuff of pirate tales. It felt tropicaler and warmer, much warmer (though none of my fellow travelers mentioned noticing that last aspect). We all checked into Moorea Pearl Resort & Spa on the island.s isolated northeast coast; my air-conditioned bungalow waited for me over a turquoise lagoon. The deck faced the open ocean. The afternoon was free to do as only I could imagine.

The deck of my Moorea Pearl Resort bungalow.

I had every writer's dream dilemma to ponder: What to "research" first. Swimming? Hiking? Enjoying a cocktail at one of the resort bars? There was a village up the road that was bound to hold my interest for a while, too. By this time, however, the tickle in my throat had grown more insistent, and I had never fully woken up from my palm-tree slumber. I opted for a quick nap.

"Good morning. This is Alain Druet, your general manager. We are evacuating the resort because of a possible tsunami. We'll be meeting in the lobby. There is no hurry, and no need to panic."

Mr. Druet's warm, French-tinged English sounded so reassuring that, indeed, I didn't panic. I may have closed my eyes again for a few moments, though. It's quite possible I thought myself still asleep. I must have slept through dinner and on through the night, to that very moment when I hung up the phone and looked at my watch. It was 5:15 a.m. on March 11, and I would soon learn that Japan had only just experienced the start of a nightmare.

There was a window set into the floor for watching fish swim below the bungalow. Water was still there and still calm, but I am quite sure I stood staring at the tranquil scene for several moments wondering if this was to be it. You know, the big it. Was a wall of water headed my way? Would my body soon be washed out to the South Pacific? I grabbed my Caribou black satchel, which held my journals, camera, passport, currency, etc. It's the same bag that's traveled the world with me since 1989. It's my most constant travel companion, and despite its tattered appearance I'll never let my wife replace it.

Speaking of my wife, back in the States she'd heard of the Japan quake hours earlier and watched reports speculating on waves of indeterminable sizes possibly heading toward French Polynesia. But there was no getting through to the island by phone. I intended to email her, but the lines for the two computers in the lobby were already long and growing as a sleepy, international crowd gathered.

I stood for a while with others, staring at CNN on the televisions, watching the immediate aftermath of the magnitude 9.0 Tohoku earthquake and tsunami that pummeled eastern apan—but there was no way to gauge the size or intensity of the resulting waves bearing down on America's West Coast, Hawaii, and French Polynesia.

By 5:30, coffee and fresh juices had been neatly set out, and despite the grave circumstances of the party, the morning proved to be a jolly nice time. Although there were some people in the lobby who were sincerely frightened, I'd already lived through Indiana floods, California earthquakes, Mexican brush fires, Texas tornadoes, and a Miami hurricane. A South Pacific tsunami was just another environmental event to check off my list. So as the sun came up I relaxed on the couch and enjoyed the company of Johan Rasten and Adriana Aires, who lived in Sweden, and were on a round-the-world honeymoon. (Their adventure is chronicled here: http://monotonundminimal.wordpress.com .) We were soon joined by my colleagues and we all talked of natural disasters until word came that, indeed, a wave was heading toward Moorea.

Adriana and Johan in Moorea before the "wave."

We walked to a nearby soccer field to wait out the unfolding events. Everyone sat in the stands, chatting in whichever languages were convenient. After thirty minutes or so, a trio of young boys arrived. (Classes had been let out to observe the warning.) They were barefoot and sun-kissed and they had a soccer ball. I joined them on the field and we played two-on-two as the sun rose higher in the sky and morning heated up.

The site of our evacuation.

I'm not a young man anymore. At least that is what I had to concede when, after only about ten minutes of running full-blast, I began to feel winded. Moments later—huffing and puffing like an old locomotive—I felt the strength in my legs slip away. Instead of stopping, I kept up the façade that I could match these youngsters. But it wasn't to be. I'd like to say that I tripped on a rock in the field, or that some unevenness in the turf caught my foot, but the truth of the matter is that my legs simply gave up and gave out, and I crashed to the turf, my left shoulder absorbing most of the fall. I cut a channel in the soccer pitch the size of a grapefruit before finally collapsing to a stop. The kids made sure I was okay. I waved them off to resume their game.

My left shin, forearm, and shoulder were already smarting. There was blood. But I won't blow it out of proportion—within a minute I was able to hobble back to my colleagues in the stands. Luckily, no one else noticed my tumble because (I would find out later) Mr. Druet had announced that the lagoon's water had begun to move out to sea, and there were renewed fears that a wave would materialize. Needless to say, they were shocked to see me—it must have appeared as if I had, indeed, survived a natural disaster of some sort.

We passed another hour with our friends from Sweden, swapping stories of similar embarrassing moments before the "all clear" was eventually given. As a group, we returned to the resort as tsunami "survivors," with only one casualty: me.

The gasps I received when other guests spotted my wounds should have convinced me to stop denying the truth of my condition. I was sick. I was wounded. I was defeated. Yes, after receiving First-Aid from the resort's receptionist, I tapped off a reassuring email to my wife and then met the others for a scheduled Jeep tour of Moorea.

The whole time out I felt overheated and winded, and so I scarcely took note (much less notes) of my surroundings or what the driver was saying. I do remember passing through pineapple plantations. There were limes and coconuts and soursap and plantains, all growing lushly in the crater of an extinct volcano. I jotted a question in my journal about whether or not "extinct" volcanoes ever come back to life.

It was all spectacular scenery, but I'll admit I felt too terrible (inside and out) to fully appreciate the views of Cook's Bay from atop Mount Belvedere, and was positively pooped while visiting an 800-year-old clearing in the jungle called Marae Te Ti'iroa. In the past, the heads of young men were cut off there to spill blood for religious rites. Shaking with chills, I asked our guide if there was some honor to have been chosen for the sacrifice. "Nope," he replied, shaking his head. "Bad luck."

After our return to the resort, I slept in pain until our group departed Moorea the next day. I should have gone straight to resort to sleep after the short flight to tiny Huahine, but we were expected at La Petite Ferme ("The Little Farm") horse stables, and, perhaps unwisely, I joined in. We mounted beautiful Marquesan horses (mine was named Santal and proved to be the spitfire of the bunch) and trotted into the island's interior. Soon enough, we're galloping at the beach, and if it all was some sort of fever hallucination, I wasn't ready for it to end.

The horses head inland, following a well worn path until we get to a enormously wide lake, "Fauna Nui" our guide called it, adding that it holds both freshwater and seawater. The horses plunged ahead. Soon the warm water was up to the horses' bellies. I felt it cleansing my soccer wounds, and Santal loved it so much that he plunged deeper until the water came up to my waist. We both emerged on the other side of the lake, safe and sound. Real or not, that horse ride will forever be my all time favorite. It was also the last real activity I participated in during this trip.

Santal carries me through Fauna Nui.

We took a boat along the lush green coast of Huahine to Te Tiare Beach Resort. It's in another out-of-this-world location, and my bungalow was again perched teasingly above turquoise waters that stretched away to infinity blah blah blah. I collapsed into bed and stayed there for most of the next 36 hours.

And after we all ferried over to the Bora Bora Pearl Beach Resort & Spa, I did mostly the same thing. There I was surrounded by tropical loveliness, on a far-flung speck of volcanic rock in the South Pacific called Bora Bora. And while my partners in journalism swam, played golf, and enjoyed spa treatments, I writhed feverishly in bed and watched non-stop coverage of Japan. (Other South Pacific activities that I didn't participate in included surfing, shark-feeding excursions, wind surfing, scuba diving, and canoeing.) I ate practically nothing. I slept rarely. I didn't go outside because my sores stung from the heat.

On my last night, however, I switched channels to a French-language version of The Incredible Hulk movie with Ed Norton; and I rather enjoyed the diversion. The next morning, before departing for Tahiti and the flight back to the States, I commented to my sun-tanned, well-rested colleagues about it. Each of them in turn claimed to have done some channel-surfing, but none recalled that movie being shown. So I may have dreamed that part.

A blurred image of me on my last day in Paradise.

While finishing this story for 805 Living, I checked my journal for any other possible mysteries. There are no notes of, but I seem to remember visiting a perfume factory. And I distinctly recall drinking a wonderful island nectar called Vahine Vanille Crème (an odd scribbling in my journal—"delicious"—next to the Tahitian liqueur;s name is my only evidence of this), but I can't find anything like it back home. I don't quite recall which island any of those activities took place, nor am I sure how I managed to purchase a gunmetal gray Tahitian peal necklace for my wife before departing. (Exhausted as I was, I'm no fool.)

That's the end of my story, and as a professional travel writer I feel like I've failed my readers. Obviously, the timing of the illness was inconvenient, and my recovery was long and lousy. (Once back home, a doctor confirmed that I had contracted a particularly nasty flu strain.) However, notwithstanding the no-show tsunami evacuation, I now know from personal experience that if one has to suffer sickness away from home, few places compare with French Polynesia. My accommodations, as well as my traveling companions, were top-notch. There's a welcoming, restorative ambiance throughout the islands, and the people I met were genuinely friendly and eager to share their heavenly island home with me.

That's high praise, I think, from someone who experienced less than half a trip to paradise. And to this day I retain scars on my body from the adventure. Would I go back? Of course. In the future, however, I'll probably think twice before accepting any upgrades to business class.

For information on the hotels mentioned in this story or to make reservations, visit spmhotels.com. For much more information on the islands of French Polynesia, visit Tahititravelplanner.com.

Today, nearly a year after the earthquake and tsunami, Japan's need for humanitarian and financial assistance remains great. I urge you to donate to Santa Barbara-based Direct Relief International. This well-respected organization uses every single dollar of donations to fund critical programs directly impacting those in need. Click here to make a donation.